Around a pile of mountains, And, supercilious, peer In shanties by the sides of roads; And then a quarry pare
To fit its sides, and crawl between, Complaining all the while In horrid, hooting stanza; Then chase itself down hill
And neigh like Boanerges; Then, punctual as a star, Stop -- docile and omnipotent -- At its own stable door.
The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be. Fair play -- Both went to see.
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain, -- More fair, because impossible That any gain.
The mountain at a given distance In amber lies; Approached, the amber flits a little, -- And that 's the skies!
A thought went up my mind to-day That I have had before, But did not finish, -- some way back, I could not fix the year,
Nor where it went, nor why it came The second time to me, Nor definitely what it was, Have I the art to say.
But somewhere in my soul, I know I 've met the thing before; It just reminded me -- 't was all -- And came my way no more.
Is Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal, But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
Is Heaven an exchequer? They speak of what we owe; But that negotiation I 'm not a party to.
Though I get home how late, how late! So I get home, 't will compensate. Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me, When, night descending, dumb and dark, They hear my unexpected knock. Transporting must the moment be, Brewed from decades of agony!
To think just how the fire will burn, Just how long-cheated eyes will turn To wonder what myself will say, And what itself will say to me, Beguiles the centuries of way!
A poor torn heart, a tattered heart, That sat it down to rest, Nor noticed that the ebbing day Flowed silver to the west, Nor noticed night did soft descend Nor constellation burn, Intent upon the vision Of latitudes unknown.
The angels, happening that way, This dusty heart espied; Tenderly took it up from toil And carried it to God. There, -- sandals for the barefoot; There, -- gathered from the gales, Do the blue havens by the hand Lead the wandering sails.
I should have been too glad, I see, Too lifted for the scant degree Of life's penurious round; My little circuit would have shamed This new circumference, have blamed The homelier time behind.